I Believe I'm Not in Cyrodill Anymore
by Meta Boo23
Summary: Having completed numerous grand accomplishments in his life already, the Hero of Kvatch goes to assist his soon-to-be emperor by retrieving the Amulet of Kings from Mankar Cameron. Alas, upon his return it is not to the place he started. Nor is it to even Cyrodill. It's 200 years in the future in Skyrim, and who better to meet than the hero of the era himself, the Dragonborn?
1. Portals

**Prologue: Portals**

It had been at least a good two seasons since his escape from the dank, rat infested hell-hole known as the Imperial City jail. Truly it had been amazing that he'd never been recognized by the authorities for his prior offences- especially concerning the one that headed him to the chopping block. It shouldn't have been so hard to find such a pale, red-head Breton as himself among the crowd of usual Bretons. Ha, he would have scoffed if not for the recent events.

Ever since the Battle of Bruma he'd not been quite right in the head. It was always there. That _incessant_ drone of noise: the clattering and tinkering of grand gears turning, opening a gateway to another bloody bare field of Oblivion. It never ceased. Day and night, it didn't matter- it's not like he could afford to sleep anyways. When the tri-faced gate appeared in the Niben, the Breton welcomed the change in appearance. Though apprehensive at first, with the witness to the miracle magic of madness it might have been the cure.

"Surely it must," he kept reassuring himself, "for what else could I be but mad? Surely no one but a madman would run purposefully into a flaming gate steaming with daedra." With that ideology established, the constant timbre of Oblivion began to muffle: and with the defeat of Jyggalag, even more so. However, even the newly acclaimed Sheogorath had his mortal jobs to achieve.

Making good on his promises, he returned to his soon-to-be emperor, Martin, with the necessary components to open the portal to Paradise.

"Paradise…. What a joke!" He cackled just as the ominously peaceful portal snapped into existence. Just as fast as the portal had appeared, it was gone with the Hero of Kvatch inside.

Paradise was the farthest thing from what he had thought it would be. The façade of the arrival grounds was most certainly impressive- and the Alyied ruins a nice touch- but the torture chambers were new; new to the fact they weren't like any of the ones in the Oblivion gates he'd encountered. The desperate cries of the victims swam into the ever-so-vigilant banter in the hero's brain.

"Hahaha!" he cackled manically, running Mankar Cameron though with his bi-polar blade and dousing his ebony armor in blood.

"I'd say it's time for a party," with a sickening rip, out came the intestines- the majority of which were being dragged about on the ground. "It's a bit long, but no matter." Bemused, he proceeded to skip rope with the entrails of his detested enemy as the palace came crashing down around him.

It was almost like traveling between the Shivering Isles and Mundus, really. Not nearly as chaotic as Oblivion portal transports usually went over but not as smoothly as others. Well, that was until he smashed his face into a rock upon his return to Tamriel.

* * *

"Hey you," the hero could feel a slight shaking and could barely register what was happening. He cracked open his eyes. Above him was an oddly armored man- and he would know odd armor, he had every set of it. There were horns protruding from the sides of the man's helmet and his upper armor was rather reminiscent of the Blade's. Immediately realization hit the Breton that he was no longer in Paradise, and from what he could gather, not at Cloud Ruler Temple either.

Snapping himself upright in a form of a stance- albeit a rush of blood to his head- he reached for his sword which was not at his side.

"Where is it?" He glanced up at his new aquatinted,

"What? Your sword?" The other raised an eyebrow, "it's over there."Grumbling to himself, the Hero gritted his teeth and shifted to grab it.

"Bit of a nasty shape you're in. You probably should not be moving about much, if at all," the opposing man commented offhandedly. From the viewpoint of the ground, the hero could see a rather well hidden dagger drawn by the stranger. Carefully he grasped his fallen weapon, not removing his eyesight from the stranger. His sword quickly followed said path in suit, but said man did not seem the least bit uncomfortable being in the threatened position he was.

"Where am I, stranger?" The hero staggered slightly, not willing to let his turbulent balance make him crash back to the solid portion of Nirn.

Said man nearly stepped back, as if to stand down. "Skyrim of course, home of the Nords and delicious mead."

"Skyrim? Quite a fantastic happenstance it is indeed."

The partially disoriented Breton lowered his sword slightly, as to accept that violence was unwarranted and unneeded with this fellow. Suddenly the natural noises of nature died. It wasn't in a way it would seem after the pillaging of a village or a forest fire- no, the injured man was quite familiar with these- it was one that the wilderness would only spawn when something feared was in its midst. It couldn't have been daedra again, could it? The other figure merely started scanning the skies, as if expecting something, Then suddenly, far in the distance there was a roar; an unfamiliar call, to the Breton, but quite the opposite for his companion. As the beast came into sight, the madman gasped, both in amusement of the insanity of the situation and of the sheer awe.

"What is that magnificent beast?"

"That, fellow adventurer, would be a dragon."

* * *

It's been a while since I've actually written a fan fic, multiple years in fact, but I digress. It occured to me one day that there are nearly no stories on here that explore the prospect of "what if two of the heros met?" Thusly, it piqued my interest to create one with both the Champion of Cyrodill, and the Dragonborn. Excuse my manic writing, but as some may say, to explain madness, one must be mad themselves.


	2. Martin, Get to High Hrothgar ASAP!

_Italics are for inner thoughts of the Hero of Kvatch._

* * *

**Chapter 1: Martin, Get to High Hrothgar ASAP!**

The Hero of Kvatch stared at his fellow adventurer, then at the great tanned beast, then back at his companion.

"A dragon? Why, is it friendly?" The Breton madman seemed to gleam at such an opportunity.

"Friendly? What do you _mean_ is it friend- Get down!" The oddly clad man tacked him to the ground, narrowly dodging the burst of scourging flames that rained upon the earth. "Just stay here; I'll take care of this."

As quick as a wink, the man was upon the battlefield, mercilessly firing arrows at the great beast's leathery wings Missing not but a single blow, the terror came smashing into the earth. "Damn giant lizards," coughed the warrior through the spray of ice and snow.

The observer, however, had not removed his eyes from this sight. How could this one man fight off something so massive? Granted he had fought off a daedric price and a million other types of creatures, but if what he recalled from numerous books was true, this was the stuff of legends. He was sure this was no ordinary man. _'Maybe I'll make him my mortal. I've only been a Prince such a short time, but he certainly does seem to fit the bill… what is the bill from anyways? A duck? Or possibly an Argonian? Hmm… I shall have to quest for the answer. It would be so much easier if I could just ask Haskill!'_

Meanwhile, the dragon shook itself off upon setting itself upright. Its gruff scales shimmered with as much radiance as the snow surrounding it. Then again, so did the fury in its eyes. Not but a second later, it released a battle cry that could be heard for miles. It could make even the dead- not the necromancer's "living" play toys- even hear its resonance.

The dragon's opponent did not flinch. He merely, if anything stood up straighter, taking in a deep, powerful breath.

"**Fus… RO DAH!**"

The force alone was enough to create another snow tornado, engulfing the dragon, which in itself had reeled back at the offencive.

The red-head was at a loss. Not only had he missed seeing the blood splattering kill, he'd missed seeing much of the techniques of such a possible chosen champion. Blasted snow. _'No matter though. I'll just have to stick with this man until the time is right.' _ The Breton forced himself to his feet.

"I do say, my good sir, what type of technique was that? I've traveled far and faced many foes, yet I've not come across such a miraculous feat."

The Dragonborn only shrugged. "It is known as the thu'um- the voice." Even as he nonchalantly removed the terror's scaly hide, and even as the multitude of colors enveloped him with the dragon's soul, the Dragonborn saw it as an average occurrence. The other, saw anything but ordinary: though, not quite extraordinary: not quite ordinary: rather, extra-ordinary.

"And where does one learn this… thu'um? Is it by this… light of enveloping of yours?" The Breton man inquired, strolling over to the body of the deceased dragon.

The other simply chuckled. "Of course not. Only those that are dragonborn may learn such things."

"….Like the Septims?"

"Yes, quite like the how the Septims were."

The Hero of Kvatch stared at the Dragonborn. Then stared again. And stared some more. The gears of his mind, as rattled and cracked as they were, were stumped. Then, something started turning. Maybe Haskill _had_ rubbed off on him a bit. Or maybe it was a certain dark brother. _'Were…?'_

" Gods damn it, Martin!"

* * *

Alright, so as many of you may have noticed, my style is a bit rickety for how it flows. I would love a Beta Reader but alas, I know they can be put to better use elsewhere. I know it's short but **please R&R**. Anything is much appreciated.

Who here who's played both Elder scrolls 4 and 5 has honestly not thought, why the heck didn't Septims ever learn to use the thu'um? Yes, the Blades and Greybeards were at ends with eachother, but the Emperor was assassinated... seriously. They couldn't agree for under a year to train the next heir in the way of the voice... rediculous.


	3. I've Been Faced With the Fact

**Chapter 2: I've Been Faced With the Fact I'm No Longer Where I Was**

The Dragonborn stared at him oddly. "Martin?"

"Yes, yes! Martin Septim; the damn illigitiment son of the recently deceased Emperor. You said 'were'! Why?" For once in a long time, the Breton's face had a clear fierce emotion of 'I want answers NOW!' The other could only look upon him a insane.

"..Martin Septim died 200 years ago. He sacrificed himself to stop Mehrune Dagon's invasion of Tamriel."

"That's a lie! Martin's still alive and waiting at Cloud Ruler Temple!" The Hero of Kvatch's voice bellowed throughout the mountainous area. If the local creatures hadn't been alerted to them by then, they certainly were now.

Grumbling inwardly at this, the Dragonborn merely retaliated," It's been 200 years since then. Whether you care to believe me or not, I could care less; however I would prefer to find a place to rest for the night. The mountains are not a dandy place to be while it is night in Skyrim."

The Breton cocked his head slightly to the side. "It is merely only evening, a camp is useless- the damned minotaurs would probably find us with that ablaze~ Ooo! But then we can play poker and find the unicorn!" It was as if the redhead had become an entirely knew person.

"...Just come along."

After many painful hours of having to keep his unknown companion at his side- easier said than done with the man's short attention span- the two arrived in Winterhold.

"Talos above, it's like having a child around." After not much deliberation, the Dragonborn decided it was best to board at the college of mages, rather than the local inn. Sure, the inn had mead and food.. And mead; but the college could offer magical protection if for some reason this man turned out to be volatile. Not to mention there were far more adept healers there.

The larges task, ironically, turned out to be getting him in there with little attention drawn as possible. Being the Archmage, it was hard enough, but with a companion whom he had yet to receive the name of? Hardly an easy chore.

"Behave for a minute, would you?"

Said Champion was currently seemingly having a staring contest with the archway above the entrance to the College.

"How is this not behaving? I'm merely enjoying a simple sport of intensity." His voice, once again, echoed far louder than what the Archmage would have liked. Talos, will the rumors start flying tomorrow.

Forcibly, the Dragonborn practically dragged the other to the Archmage quarters, the other continuously acting odd. Many hours later, the latter finally settled down to almost a slumber. The Breton was currently laying on a bed the Archmage had temporarily moved into his quarters across from his own sleeping area.

"Hey, Lizardborn," the yawning, redhead inquired.

"It's Dragonborn, but what?"

"That's not a very fun name, you know… it reminds me of an egg. And that reminds me of an omlette… with cheese," the redhead licked his lips just thinking about the substance, "mm.. delicious cheese…"

"My name? It's Ticedoni Vandacia. I may not be a Nord, but I'm the best damn thing Skyrim's got right now."

"Best damn thing, hm?" The Breton secretly cast a night eye spell. The features of the Imperial, as he had oh-so-amazingly deduced, were really not that special. Ticedoni's face was rather plain without the covering of the horned helm. His eyes and hair were of a darker shade- 'most likely a dark brown,' the hero told himself- and his skin as pale as any other resident of Skyrim's. If it were not for his obvious Imperial-origin name, and his darker features, he could have plausibly mistaken him for a Nord: quite an ingenious disguise in the rugged lands of cold weather and people.

Suddenly a voice pierced his observational thoughts, "What of your name?"

"Sigmund Agrynak at your service. I hold many titles however none of them are of importance at the moment. You are the current Archmage, are you not?"

Ticedoni shifted in his bed slightly to see the Breton better with the moonlight that flooded in. "Yes, but as for now, sleep is boding me, so any more questions or any form of a story time must wait."

"….Fine, Lizardbreath."

Really, he wished that white lie was true, but sleep was a far matter from his mind. 'Hopefully he will not inquire anymore and rest to recover from.. wherever he came from. He said he knew Martin Septim? Well, even with his insane claim of coming from 200 years ago, who am I to judge? I've lived with a little girl vampire that's over 300! …He doesn't look like a vampire though. He didn't burn by the sun or even have sharp teeth. Did he? I doubt it. Hmm.. I should probably keep one eye open tonight just in case.'

Sigmund, however was having none the easier time of reaching the realm of the sleepyheads and sheep. 'Blasted portal. Blasted Martin. Martin, you bastard, you better really not go die on me! If you do I'll-…! I'll..! Create a new festivity on the land, known as the Intesti-val or.. or… use Manimarco's staff to revive you.. but then you'd be a zombie. And belong to Namira.. Damn it! She's not getting her grimy under-decomposed hands on you! I still have my job to complete,' he sighed mentally, 'In the case I am indeed 200 years in the future.. I wonder if I'm still here~? Ohhoho~ TWO Sheogoraths in one place! Oh was madness we shall concoct! The world shall never see us coming! Or hear us, or taste us for that matter! Oh yes! And what of my glorious brothers and sisters? I wonder if they ever found a replacement for me if.. this is the case where I just up and disappeared from that place in time. I bet they never found one as great as me! Oh what WONDERFULLY MADDENING adventures await me here!' The incredibly mad man chuckled quietly to himself and eventually found the land of fluffy sheep after herding more than he'd like to admit over the fence.

His companion, though, was not quite as lucky, having only found a few scarce moments where he was not being incredibly wary or paranoid to take a power nap.

* * *

To anyone who's reviewed, followed, favorited, or otherwise for this story, thank you so much!

I must apologize for the tardiness of this chapter. Life keeps dragging me 95mph when I want to go 30. I'll update when I can!

I tried to make this a tad longer, alas it rather failed. I have ideas but just how to convert them into a flowing story.. hmm... *goes and inquires Haskill upon this*


	4. What Has Happened in My Absence

**Chapter 3: What Has Happened in My Absence**

Now Ticedoni was hardly a heavy sleeper. How could he be if often he's alone adventuring through some gods forsaken Dwemer ruin and realizes he should probably rest for it was a new day? After all, who knows what kind of traps reside in there.

Either way, the Imperial hardly expected to wake up and not see his fellow adventurer in the bed he oh-so-graciously allowed him to rest on. In fact, only after running about for an hour or so, inquiring the Colleges many residents, did he discover the man in the library: arguing with the local book keeper.

Now Urag gro-Shub was a patient man. He had patience when needed, even when his Orsimer impatience would rather shine, and tried to be accommodating- at least to some degree- for the College residents. This Breton however, he had neither met nor seen before in his life.

"You know, you remind me of a certain chamberlain I once met! He was locked up in a tree though. Had a whole library in his brain. You wouldn't like him. He worked for the Prince of biscuits!" Sigmund paused, seemingly contemplating something, "...or was it order? Either way you'd like him."

A vein in the Orcimer's head seemed only to increase in size, "I told you, if you continue to disrupt my Arcaeneum I will have you torn apart with angry Atranochs!"

Alas this only seemed to excite the madman.

"Atranochs! Such lovely creatures! Especially the flesh ones~"

Urag had had just about enough of this... this... madness, when he spotted his dear Archmage watching from the door. "Archmage! Care to explain," he gestured towards the intruder, "this?"

Sigmund blushed acting bashful. His feet shuffled slightly out of habit, making him wish he had his 'bloody eyeball cane', as he has come to name it, at the moment.

Ticedoni nearly face palmed, striding closer to the duo. "I must apologize, Urag. This is my guest I recently found while on my travels. He had hit his head pretty hard so I figured to rather bring him here for a quicker healing than to bring him to an inn and replete my resources."

Urag shifted his gaze between the two for a minute, judging the two. "Fine. But I'll have no havoc here. If he is not here for a book, then let him be removed from this area."

And then Sigmund remembered. "You don't happen to have books on the history of the past two-hundred years, do you?"

The Orc looked dumbfounded for a short minute. "Do I happen to have a boo-? Of course I do. What part of it did you need to know?"

"Any and all of it! You see, this man," the madman patted a heavy hand on the Archmage's shoulder, "claims that I have been transported into the future! Ridiculous! Redonculous! And any other kind of -onculous! Redofudolictonculous!"

The Imperial simply shrugged his companion's hand off. This traveler he found never ceased to amuse him with his witty words and phrases. "Urag, could you possibly find the book on the Oblivion crisis for him? I think it best he start from what he last remembers."

The old Orc grumbled something, going to look for said book. A few minutes later he had found the prized item, which was furtherly lended to the clearly insane man. "Damage it and not even Oblivion can save you."

If that was a threat it certainly wasn't a good one; especially considering the grand princeliness that stood before the other mages. "Fretting over Oblivion? I hear it's quite nice this time of year! No matter though~ I love books! Had a whole library back at home. Wonder what ever happened to it..."

* * *

It had been nearly two weeks and the Breton had yet to come out of the wondrous realm known as the Arcaeneum. If this was a perfect world, which it wasn't, Urag would have grown more fond of the visitor; alas it seemed the more he visited, the less he liked him. Then again, he could never actually kick him out. He couldn't bring himself to do that to such a dedicated book lover. Especially after the man decided to donate the books he still had with him- many of which Urag had never even seen nor heard of!

"Urag, I've finished!"

The Orsimer looked up from his book oddly at the Breton. "You've... Finished?"

Said redhead nodded, "Yup! All the books I could have access to here~" He walked towards the orc, practically beaming, and set his book upon the stack where many others resided.

"I must thank you for sharing with me your vast collection! Alas, the first book you shared with me... 'The Oblivion Crisis' was it? Was indeed... Lacking. So I added annotations that are the true sequence of events!"

Urag looked furious. He wanted to ream thus man out for defacing his precious book! He wanted to have his precious Atronach rip him to shreds! ...But if what the Archmage had said was true about this man, then he would know more about the events that transpired. He watched the other leave before curiously digging out said book. These annotations were incredible! The detail of the events! Incredible! Absolutely astounding. Until... Were those water stained pages? No, he must have been hallucinating. Especially because on the last page, where it said Martin died, it was crossed out furiously and instead had written in: 'lived.' Urag would have to be a fool to not see this as a defiance of a predestined fate for the poor soul of a man.

* * *

The Archmage was in no mood for dealing with the riffraff of the other mages today. His private stash of alchemy ingredients had been raided the other day and he'd not had time to find the crook or go to replenish it. Unfortunately, riffraff is an easy find in a guild based upon such a dangerous weapon. Especially when there is a rather large crowd of new associates gathered in a ring around a bloodied floor, shouting "Fight! Fight! Fight!" out in the courtyard. Today was just not going to be his day, was it?

"Enough!" Ticedoni bellowed, pushing his way through the ring only to find Sigmund with that confounded red orange gemmed blade of his that looked like a mouth- actually, it looked a LOT like a mouth- cut through what could have only been the remains of a scamp. The clearly not right minded man and three and a half week resident simply waited until said pile of mush disappeared to summon another of the blasted creatures. Obviously he had been paying no attention to the crowd that had gathered around him. Or the furious Archmage that was trying not to blast his ass back to wherever the hell he came from. If the lack of attention certainly didn't show this, then the blood drenched floor and outfit certainly did.

"What is this?" Ticedoni seethed, glaring at the man with a look any scorned Nord would have been proud of.

"10." The entranced warrior had sliced and diced yet another of the wretched beings.

"What?"

"11. There we go! All quenched now~" suddenly the bi-polar blade began to glow. Not like some kind of grand gaudy transformation sequence, but one of subtle light and ever so slightly did the blade seem to relax itself.

"WHAT in the name of the gods were you doing?" The Archmage had finally lost whatever stretched patience he had left for the day.

"I was feeding my blade."

"...what? You were FEEDING your blade? I knew you were eccentric, but to think a blade REQUIRES blood-"

"souls," the Breton corrected.

"Whatever it requires! That is impossible! Now all of you..." The Imperial finally snapped back to the undisbursed crowd, "Get back to your lessons!" The associates hustled back to their duties as to avoid the archmages wrath.

"It is obvious you are well beyond healing your head injury. You're quite well enough to just scram, so why haven't you?" It was not necessarily malice leading these words of the Archmage, but it was certainly laced in with curiosity.

"It's not that I cannot 'scram' as you've said, but more of, I find it most useful to have your assistance with the matter of my return to my own time- a quest per say. My magic is great and far... Or is it vast... Or wide... Or skinny... Or gigantanormous. I propose until that day where you can get up off your high-featherweight horsey, I will continue to do as I do, which so obviously is driving you deliciously mad. In the case you do decided to come along for alchemical harvesting, then I shall continue to be myself with you in tow~"

"...I don't see the difference between the two." The Archmage sighed. It was like he was making a deal with a daedric prince- if there ever was an option, neither choice worked in his favor.

"The difference is if you want me gone for it is quite fantastic for me to stay here~ You're world is quite bland. Even the shiny spirit thingy in your basement!"

"...you even talked to the oracle?"

"Of course! I'm an adventurer! Exploring is my specialty! ... Or was it slaughtering the undead..? Hmm... No, no, it was making sweetrolls! What say you?"

The Imperial certainly felt torn, which he certainly hoped he didn't look. He had always hated these one sided deals and planned to keep it that way. But he couldn't very well leave this clearly insane man to his own senses! What if he accidently killed someone? Then he'd have to send someone to go fetch the man for the dark brotherhood and then what? Have ANOTHER crazy inane talking killer besides Cicero about? Just thinking of that gave him a headache.

"Fine," Ticedoni grudgingly agreed, "I will continue to assist you on your quest, as you've declared it to be."

* * *

So I guess my updates will be slow and when I get around to them. I hope you guys are enjoying the madness that fuels this piece. May it be awakened within all of you!

Thank you to all the supporters (favs, reviews or otherwise)! I really appreciate it and I **will **finish this story for sure; I know where it's going, now just to put it to paper...


	5. Bending Reality for a Better Place

**Chapter 4: Bending Reality for a More Suitable Context**

If someone had ever told Ticedoni that having a companion with him would only prove to be a setback, he would have laughed in their face. Sure, some of the followers he'd had with him weren't the brightest of blokes... Or for that matter the cleanliest; but he could at least rely on them for sure! It had only been two days since their last encounter with civilization- if whatever village that he'd forgotten the name of could be called that- and Sigmund had managed to attract three hagravens, a troll, a platoon of skeletons, two bears, three spriggans, and at least fifteen wolves. How he had done it? Well, it's not too hard to figure out since said insane person was constantly either bursting into song and dance or just poking his head into every damned place that could ever possibly be inhabited and then yelling something beyond the Dragonborn's comprehension. It wouldn't have been so bad if Sigmund would kill his own attractions, but no. Not only was his companion mad, but he was clearly an incompetent warrior! Every time Ticedoni called for assistance, the madman would just claim he'd already done his fair share of genocide to their race or some other unsettling comment! The nerve of that man!

"Sigmund, knock it off. If you want to fight, fine; but don't make me do your dirty work _especially_because you clearly are capable of killing something as simple as a wolf."

The Hero of Kvatch's ebony armor practically glistened in the late afternoon sun, as he entered yet another cave. "How can you base combat ability upon appearance~? Don Quixote would be pleased at this acknowledgement of skill! Then again he was a jouster of the beasts of burden... Hm... HASKILL!"

This was at least the fifteenth time this week he'd called out for someone who clearly did not exist. "There _is _no 'Has-kill'. And if there was, that was in your time."

"Lies," Sigmund cracked a crooked smile.

"Who is he then?" Said redhead seem to get all giggly merely to refrain the same answer as last time. "My ever so loyal and snazzily dressed chamberlain of course~ He makes great brain pies you know.. You should really donate yours since you don't seem to need such a thing~ Speaking of unneeded things, why do the fish eggs and cheese curds always fight? They used to be such good friends with the Grummites too."

Ticedoni sighed heavily. He needed a vacation. It had just been one thing after another all the way back since Helgen. Maybe he would end up taking Sam* up on that offer of his.

Oh yes, of course. He had forgot to mention that his traveling partner had somehow driven them in so many circles that they were now lost. How perfectly suitable it was of this coward. It would have been quite easy for him normally to have taken the journey from Winterhold to Falkreath with a pit-stop at Whiterun in between, but no. It was becoming apparent to him that catching a break is not something in his future's vocabulary. It wasn't just this madman preventing it; no. It must have been some plot that could only be devised by some divine power: more likely of the Daedric variety not the Aedric; however those can be just as cunning and clever but that was of no matter.

Then suddenly the madman was gone. Looking around, Ticedoni almost jumped for joy. It was a horrible thing to rejoice over considering how untrained the other appeared to be, but he was gone! No more madness! No more than necessary troll attacks! It was almost like he had finally caught a break. Maybe the gods did listen to individual requests after all. There was no guilt felt in leaving the crazy individual whom not many knew about, if he was still here, to his own resources. Grinning practically from ear to ear, the Imperial progressed onwards towards Whiterun to drop off some of his bearings and visit with some people… if you knew what he meant.

* * *

It was pitch black outside save for a few sparse lights. The ever so rare snow flurries that fell upon Whiterun sparkled like glitter from the starlight. Lone and behold there, in the center of town stumbled a gaggling of giddy drunken men who had no more morals than a troll after a goat.

"Guess who I am," one of them chuckled, doing a poor imitation of the groups' leader by shouting, "fud ro duhhhhhhhhhhhahahaha," and proceeded to fling himself backwards onto his butt. The pack couldn't help but burst into drunken laughter, even the supposed victim of the impersonation.

Soon after, another went up to one of the guards and spouted, "Don't worry, I'm the Thane!" which merely ended with the man cracking up from his own, horrid joke.

Eventually, as all good things must come to an end, the self proclaimed leader of the group ended up making his way back to Breezehome- his home away from home. Where was his home anyway? At any rate, he had barely made it up the stairs and if it wasn't for Lydia's attentiveness, he would have crashed down them for a fourth time and probably would have just settled for sleeping at the foot of them still cladded in his iron armor and overly wide helm with horns spouting from either side. Fortunately, he did indeed, by some miracle, make it to his forever welcoming bed upstairs. As soon as he had hit the sheets, he was out and taking yet another trip through the land of dreams.

* * *

"You really should learn to lock your doors. Never know what sort of misfit, glorious, or even delicious creature may meander its way into your little cottage's safety, hm?"

The Dragonborn shot straight out of bed and nearly stuck himself with all the miscellaneous dragon bones lying about in a fret to grab some sort of defensive weapon. "Damnit!" He seethed at the close call, facing the intruder whom only caused him to find the return of his long gone migraine.

Footsteps bounded up the stairs at the sound of the thud. With a smash, the doors burst open- if they weren't built by Nords, they certainly would have been thrown off their hinges- revealing Lydia, battle ready.

"By the gods, you do have a woman in your life!" Sigmund was no longer donned in the glories of ebony armor. No, he was gilded in a blue waistcoat with white pants and knee high boots that made him look gaudy beyond any reason. Ever. He sat upon the dresser with the authority of that as if it was a thrown. Even the simplicity of Breezehome seemed to accentuate this.

"I was beginning to worry you were like one of the oddities in Mania! Such curious fellows they are, inventing 19793579429 different types of cheese and all. And you," He turned to the clearly annoyed house carl, "such an odd specimine-" Lydia cut him off with an advance and the point of her sword at his throat.

"Who are you?"

Ticedoni secretly hoped Lydia would run the man through and then that'd be the **absolute** last he'd ever see of him, but even he knew that if what this madman claimed was true, destroying people that determined what the future- his current time- was, was not a wise move. He sighed heavily.

"Lydia, leave him be. He's a guest."

With a reluctant glare she withdrew her blade. "…yes, my Thane."

Sigmund seemed to eye her up as she made her way out of the room and back down stairs. "Not bad as a Golden Saint; not as bad as a Dark Seducer…Not as bad as a Dark Seducer; not as bad as a Golden Saint… hmm.. I can never remember which way it went."

The Dragonborn was in really no mood to deal with his shenanigans and inane ramblings right now. "What do you want." It was a statement. Not a question.

"Ohhoho! So impatient are we today!" The madman hopped off the dresser and waltzed over to the table. "Please, do come have a seat." And suddenly all silliness disappeared from his voice. The Imperial shivered. It seemed almost unnatural to have this man's voice without that silliness attributed in. Now it just sounded… he couldn't put his finger on the right word. Reluctantly, he came and sat at his bedroom table.

The other withdrew a scroll from within his light blue coat pocket and ever so slowly proceeded to open it before laying it on the table before the other. Now, many things can be contained upon a scroll. He was Archmage after all. Spells would be the most common, but this. He was not expecting this. Scrawled upon the parchment wasn't some intricate sign work; no, it was a simple black hand spread upon the page. A reminder if you will. He was at a loss for what to say.

"I see you recognize it well. Care to explain? Hmm?"

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Notes:

*Sanguine in disguise. A drinking contest with him triggers Sanguine's quest. If you've not done this quest I highly suggest checking it out. Best single quest

* * *

School, why must you consume so much of my time? I'm updating and writing when I can (which is not as often as I'd like, but it will have to do for now).

Thanks for all the wonderful reviews and follows!


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